Remembering

I just want to remember everything right. Please tell me if I’m forgetting anything. I promise not to prod you again after you answer.

Short stories and poems I read aloud while you blew me:

  • “Idylle” by Guy de Maupassant
  • “Why I Want to Fuck Ronald Reagan” by J.G. Ballard
  • “Steps” by Frank O’Hara

Normal

That time I throat-fucked you in that hotel room sits towards the top of the list of our best fucks. I remember hearing somewhere that Ted Bundy once said he thought he might be able to “feel normal” by staring into the eyes of women as they died; as in, while he killed them. I don’t really feel like going over all the qualifying statements you’re supposed to make when you sympathetically quote a perverted serial killer, so just imagine that they’re all there, because they are all there. Anyway, that quote reached the top of my mind and stayed there as my cock went all the way to the back of your throat. You looked so beautiful on your back, tits laid out, legs spread to show off your perfect thighs and clean-shaven pussy.

My cock felt so good. It felt better there than it ever did in any pussy or ass. It felt like that was where it belonged and where it’s always belonged. I loved the sensation of your lips wrapping around the very base of my cock while my balls rested on your nose. I loved watching you squirm as I thrusted. I loved witnessing your indecision over whether you should touch yourself, or if the primary act in question required too much concentration on your part. There was a sort of tension in seeing your hand go down to your clit for a few flicks and then stop to grab the sheets to brace your body as I slammed back and forth. Then it went back to your crotch as I slowed down, praying that I don’t cum and end this all way too early.

I remember grabbing on to your big tits like they were handlebars or the wedges on a rock-climbing wall and using them to maintain my balance. I dug in with my fingers to distract you from what was happening to your throat. That’s when your right hand really went to work down there. Spit and mucus had become a hybrid glaze on my ballsack at that point and I couldn’t believe how good it felt. For a few minutes there, a blissful sense of normalcy came down over me. I was born a little un-synced: my tongue aligns with pussy and ass, and my cock aligns with mouths and throats. God or Darwin or whatever accidentally flipped the two back when I was made. But right then in that hotel room, with your head dangling over the side of the bed, it didn’t matter. My cock was where it was born to be, and I felt normal and good and close to you.

***

For all installments from Letters from a Heartbroken Pervert, click here.

Previous installments:

  1. I Can’t Draw
  2. Avant-Garde
  3. First
  4. Stupid
  5. Faces
  6. Wasted
  7. Your Idea
  8. Two-Thirds
  9. Trick
  10. A Poem
  11. Blurred Reality and Legal
  12. An Exchange
  13. About July Fourth
  14. Matter
  15. Taste and Dream
  16. Where Have You Cum?
  17. While You Were Speaking
  18. Why I Lie
  19. Another Poem
  20. The Oval Office